


Republic Commando : Bha'lir Squad : Set Six

by Izzerslololol



Category: Star Wars: Clone Wars (2003) - All Media Types, Star Wars: Republic Commando Series - Karen Traviss, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Brotherhood, Brothers, Clones, Drabble, Drabble Collection, Drabble Sequence, Gen, Mando'a
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2009-05-19
Updated: 2013-03-06
Packaged: 2017-11-29 23:18:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/692669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Izzerslololol/pseuds/Izzerslololol
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Republic Commandos took heavy casualties after the initial Battle of Geonosis that set off the Clone Wars. Squads that were once whole, functioning units of 4, found themselves patched together with other squads after losing the brothers they'd grown with on Kamino.</p><p>This is a collection of drabbles regarding squad in particular as they struggle to cope with the losses and learn to work together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Move

**Author's Note:**

> If you stumbled on here browsing fics for the Clone Wars: hello! This might not be what you're expected or used to. There weren't enough Clone Commandos in the series for me (though I desperately want more of and loved Gregor), and the videogame Republic Commando offered such an interesting and unique perspective of a necessary division of the military. 
> 
> Also, please keep in mind that Commandos (like all of the other Clones) are not issued names, they are 'recognized' by their numbers. They have no rights, like the rest of the Clone Army, and thus are not allowed possessions of any kind. They are the property of the Republic.
> 
>  **Warnings:** Expect to read suggestive and/or controversial material, including but not limited to: sexual themes, cursing, violence, drug use/addiction/dependency, hints of PTSD, mental-health related issues, and violence. If this bothers you in any way, shape, or form, or if you are a minor (aka, under-aged), there is a button at the top of your screen that says BACK. I suggest you use it. Thank you.

**Carrack-class Light Cruiser Neebray, en-route to RAS Auspicious,  
Yuwei XI, Mid Rim, 427 days after Geonosis**

  
  
  
"I don’t know who they’re sticking us with, Sarge," muttered RC-2405, Mute, into the secured comlink. "Command deposited us on a transport with a one way ticket to one of the attack cruisers orbiting the Outer Rim’s Coruscant."

"Which one?" grunted one miffed Mandalorian Feeorin.

"The fattest one with the prettiest hair," the commando deadpanned.

"…this is a secure channel, you know."

"Yeah, Sarge. But we’re en-route with a company of shinies, and they don’t appreciate me handing over information so freely."

"Shab." The Mandalorian laughed. "Ni n’arue." _I’m no enemy._

"I know."

"Tion’vaii E’tad?" _Where’s E’tad?_

"He’s… around. He doesn’t like being seen together all the time, especially in the ‘freshers. Says it gives the other brothers too much suggestive gossip material."

"Suggestive material?" The commando could hear the surprised amusement in the Feeorin’s gruff voice. "Your brothers… would think along those lines?"

"Commandos are eccentric, Sarge. That’s what they say, and we don’t try to make them think different. I don’t think the troopers would go that far, but I’m not the chatty type—"

The Mandalorian snorted.

"—so I wouldn’t know. Preemptive strike. I don’t know if I want to fuel that type of adventurous storytelling yet."

The ‘fresher door hissed open. Mute glanced over his shoulder…

…just in time to see the fist before it smashed into his face. Pain exploded behind his eyes as he clattered backwards onto the tiled floor. The comlink bounced away from his outstretched hand and settled by the sinks.

" _Di’kut_ ," hissed RC-7177, E’tad, as he stepped over his brother’s groaning form. He plucked the comlink off the ground. "You didn’t tell me you were going to comm _Tam’buir._ "

"Nice to hear from you, Et’ika. Don’t hit your brother," Sarge grunted.

"Too late."

"Shab,” spat Mute. "Who else would I comm in the can, _chakaar_? That hurt."

"I’m not sorry," E’tad politely informed his downed brother as he stepped back over to the fresher door and sealed the lock.

Mute grunted a few times as he picked himself off the floor. He stumbled over to the sinks, gripped the edge of the nearest one, and leaned forward to look into the mirror. The commando gently poked his rapidly purpling cheekbone. Nothing was broken, and there was no permanent damage that he could see.

"Oh thank the _Manda,_ " he said. "You didn’t damage my beautiful face."

E’tad snorted as he leaned his back against the locked door. "It's not your face you should worry about. Your hair’s getting long. It’s past regulation length."

"Past reg’ length?" Sarge’s voice echoed cleanly in the ‘freshers. "Need to get that cut, _ad’ika_."

"No thanks." Mute angled his head to the side. His hair remained unaffected by his earlier fall… the rows of dark curls were still in place, so tightly braided to his skull that he might as well have been trimmed. There was nothing wrong with a little style. His brother was just jealous.

"It gives me character."

E’tad snorted. "Whatever."

"Any news on Sixer?" Mute asked as he turned around.

Soft static echoed via the comlink, which indicated that Sarge had the speech button pressed but had nothing to say. The commandos stayed silent. Waited. They were nothing if not patient when the need arose.

"…it doesn’t look good." The Feeorin finally grunted. "I’m working on it boys, but I’m no healer."

E’tad let his head drop back to hit the door with a soft thunk. Across the ‘fresher, Mute hung his head forward and stared at the tiles.

The silence stretched on. Mute counted the seconds in his head.

"It’s okay, Sarge," E’tad said finally. "We knew he wasn’t going to get better."

"I was the one who diagnosed him, after all," said Mute.

"Besides, someone’s gotta keep Asher company." E’tad’s voice cracked over the last word. He pressed the back of a fist to his mouth and automatically went over a few controlled breathing exercises.

It didn’t help that the following static seemed to choke out the air in the ‘fresher.

Mute turned around to grip the sink and stare at his face again. It hurt to breathe over the ache is his chest, so he held his breath and stared hard at his reflection. If he squinted, he could see his brothers instead of himself.

The Feeorin sighed. "Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la." _Not gone, merely marching far away._

Though there was no way Sarge could see it, both of the commandos nodded silently.

"I have to cut this short," the ex-sergeant continued. "Keep in touch, _ad’ike._ "

"Yes sir."  
"Yes sir."

The comlink beeped twice and disconnected. Through the mirror, Mute watched his brother drag his feet across the room to tap him on the shoulder. Mute held out his hand, and received the personal comlink. He deactivated the small black box and then slipped the com into a secret pocket sewn just inside the seam of his bodysuit’s waistband.

A knock at the ‘fresher door abruptly ended the mood.  
  
 _"What are you two doing in there?"_  
 _"Together? Again?"_  
 _"Leave ‘em alone, they need their privacy."_  
 _"Someone unlock this door!"_  
  
" _Di’kute,_ " Mute whispered, grinning at his reflection. A bit louder, he moaned, "Oh Et’ika. _Et’ika._ "

E’tad shot his brother a glare. "What are you…?"

Mute grinned a little wider, and then puckered his lips together. "Oh, _brother._ "

E’tad blanched. "Oh no. No way!"

"Yes, _Et’ika!_ Et—E’tad? Where’re you going?"

The door hissed open and E’tad disappeared faster than a top-of-the-line Corellian freighter could make the jump to hyperspace. Left in his wake was a trooper on the ground, his brothers spread out around him, with a palm cupping his swollen cheek and his mouth in the shape of an ‘o’.

Mute stuffed his hands into his bodysuit’s pockets and calmly strode out of the ‘freshers. He didn’t have to say a thing, the troopers jumped and obediently scattered the moment he exited the room.

Sometimes it was good to be a commando.

But only sometimes.

 


	2. Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Squad Sergeant looks for his pod-brother after a long night, and finds the pilots' sewing circle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning** for misogynistic language in this section.

**Republic Assault Ship Auspicious, in-orbit over Yuwe XI, Mid Rim,  
427 days after Geonosis**

 

RC-3192, _Beten_ , shrugged on the top half of his fatigues and rose to his feet in the dark. All personal quarters on all warships looked the same, as long as one knew which kind they were in. This commando in particular knew, without a doubt, he was in a Jedi commander’s.

The commando noiselessly crossed the meter between the cot and the door, pressed his palm to the doorpanel, and exited without so much as a glance to the sleeping form left behind. He strolled away from the private quarters with his hands in his pockets. The top half of his fatigues hung open down to his waist, bouncing slightly as he walked despite the rigid material. He took a left, down another hall dimly lit to conserve energy.

Normally he’d have bumped into one of the other clones, but the ship was always quietest on third shift. The commando turned right, down another corridor, and stopped at a single plain door. The panel obediently reacted to the code he tapped in, and the door to his shared room hissed open. He placed a hand on the doorframe and peered inside.

Empty.

Unperturbed, the commando buttoned up his red fatigues, keyed in the door's lock code, and then left the private quarters entirely. He could rouse his brother on their personal comlink channel, but that would interrupt whatever his brother was up to.

Besides, if Beten couldn’t locate his own pod brother in a timely manner, he didn’t deserve the little sleep he could’ve gotten otherwise.

It took a few minutes—20 standard, he counted—to walk from the barracks to the closest hangar, which was conveniently the closest one to the mess on this side of the assault ship. It was, understandably, the favored hangout of many a pilot, bar none.

The moment he stepped into the massive space, he heard what sounded like the soft, slow moving music civvies might listen to while relaxing within an upper-class lounge on Coruscant—one usually sung by an attractive female in a sparkling dress and fanciful headgear. A faint blue light illuminated a corner tucked behind two parked CR-20 troop carriers and half a squad’s worth of Alpha-3s. He approached it with hands still buried in his pockets.

Yeah. It was definitely that kind of music. He reared around the corner of an Alpha-3, and instantly noticed the half meter high holo of a classy Twi-lek who wore a dress that hugged her hips so tight it might as well have been a second skin. She danced inside an open CR-20, swaying her hips side to side in lazy, catlike movements. Her mouth moved as though she huskily sung the current song, which was something about money, women, and a man who “don’t do right.”

In the small open space surrounded on all sides by parked ships, three groups of troopers huddled around separate makeshift tables and played Sabacc. Among them, Beten caught sight of RC-5163, _Toss_. If his trimmed orange mohawk didn’t give him away, the triple stripe orange goatee connecting his lower lip to his chin certainly did.

“Read ‘em and weep, boys—Fool’s Array.” Toss triumphantly slapped his cards down onto the crate.

“ _Frack_.”

“ _Osik_.”

“What the _kriff?_ ”

The clones with him tossed their cards down onto the empty crate with various curses. Toss cupped his hands over the pool—which consisted not of credits but bits of sweet pastries and other small treats.

“Is he cheating again?” Beten asked.

“No sir, I would never!” Toss grinned cheekily as he sampled a small cream-filled puff pastry.

“Liar.” One of the pilots, _Sleight_ , waved a highly rude gesture in Toss’ face.

Another pilot, _Slim_ , greeted Beten with a lazy salute. “Oh hey, _Sarge_.”

“Want to join us?” asked the third pilot, Mixer, without turning around, busy shuffling the cards in front of him.

Beten shook his head. “Just here to watch, _vode_.”

“So how was the Commander?”

Beten glanced over his shoulder. He knew he hadn’t been followed—she probably couldn’t walk right if she tried, not after last night—but he allowed himself the nervous habit. Better safe than sorry.

“Wildcat. My back's going to need some bacta,” he informed his brothers with a leer and leaned against the hull of the closest Alpha-3. “Take it from me—Jedi flexibility isn't just a rumor, _vode_. I had her bent in all the _right ways_. And her mouth does more than just _look_ pretty, _much more_ …” He reached forward, plucked a treat from Toss’ victory pile, and popped it into his mouth. The sugar sweetcream melted on his tongue and sent a shiver down his spine.

“Lucky _shabuir,_ ” Sleight muttered gruffly.

Slim daintily sniffed and pointed his nose up towards the ceiling. “Such disrespect.”

Toss snorted.

“Didn’t someone say Jedi vowed an oath of celibacy?” one of the clones from the other Sabacc groups called out.

“Guess it’s open for interpretation.” Toss shrugged.

Beten crossed his arms. “Yeah. Like the rest of their code.”

Conversation died down across the groups after that. The music dragged on, filling the silence with the trill of a husky Twi’leki singer.

Eventually, Mixer sighed. “Don’t know how you do it, Sarge.” The pilot paused and shook his head as he dealt out the next round of cards.

"Do what?"

"You know, after she—"

"What he means." Sleight snapped a hand over the other pilot's mouth and interrupted, loudly: “Is that ladies should be all over us flyboys, but instead they go straight to you cut-up meatheads.”

Mixer fumbled with the palm over his hand. Silence filled the bay as the music died down between songs.

Beten looked at Toss. Toss looked at him, then handed him a small sweet-cream from his pot. The Sergeant accepted the treat and slipped it under his tongue, rolling his head up to stare at the shadowed ceiling.

Then Toss laughed, forced, and remarked: “Like clutching a flight stick with one hand and pumping your fist is the go-getter for the womens.”

“Whoa," gasped Slim. " _Whoa_. I take offense,” 

Sleight guffawed, nearly scattering the cards out of his hands. “I don’t!”

And just like, the tension passed. Beten swallowed down his anxiety and the hollow ache in his chest around the sugar over his tongue. “The moment we get our new squadmates, we’re shipping off, Mixer,” Beten reminded him. “No more having to compete with us manly folk.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Mixer replied warily, eyes on his cards. “You sure you don’t want to join us?”

“No,” Beten replied as he eyed the cards. “I don’t gamble.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beten is not a _good_ character, per se, but he has his reasons. They may not be _good_ reasons, and they don't excuse his attitude or actions, but they'll be revealed in time. I'll just leave it at that for now.


	3. Inspire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The four finally meet, and it's less than what any of them were hoping for.

**Republic Assault Ship Auspicious, Hangar Deck,  
428 days after Geonosis**

 

Commander Aasa was giving a rousing speech. E’tad could tell, from the way his trooper brothers tensed and paid the utmost attention to the red-skinned near-human on the elevated platform above them. And from the way she moved, perhaps it was rousing in different ways. Zeltron were known for releasing pheromones to subtly entice or manipulate their audience, after all.

But he didn’t know for sure—he couldn’t hear the speech over the conversation his newly re-formed squad was having. That, and his armor’s advanced filtration system likely kept out any unneeded pheromones from contaminating him.

“So let’s clear the air.” Bha’lir Squad’s Leader, Beten, spoke with a smooth voice—the kind E’tad linked with smugglers who had various females tripping over themselves for in cantinas across the galaxy. “What do you do in your free time?”

“Girls,” spoke Mute in his subtly ragged voice.

“Sabacc,” said Toss, oozing positivity with one word.

“Girls,” echoed Beten.

E’tad bristled. Was he the only _sensible_ one here? “Wishing I could _hear_ the Jedi _Commander._ ”

Beten chuckled. The irritating, smug grin E’tad knew was plastered to the _chakaar_ ’s face leaked into his voice. “Lighten up, _ner vod._ Zeltron can sense emotions, even through the armor. Think happy thoughts or she’ll really notice her hormone hocus-pocus isn’t getting to us.”

“They got to you last night, _vod._ ” Toss laughed.

E’tad attempted to rein in his horror with thoughts of the things he loved best—heavy weapons. He began to list the separate parts of a Reciprocating Quad Blaster, more commonly known as the Cip-Quad. He mentally took apart the weapon, and then pieced it back together with small, additional experimental modifications to the built-in micro-repulsorlifts. If he adjusted the powercell, perhaps it could fire more rounds per second…

“The _Commander?_ Seriously?”  
“Well, I don’t like to brag…”  
“Yes he does. Don’t let his hair fool you.”  
“...What?”  
“Huh?”  
“What’s wrong with my hair?”  
“It’s red.”  
“…Your’s is orange.”  
“So?”  
“So you’re one to t—”  
“Heads up. Commander incoming.”

E’tad snapped to attention as the Zeltron Jedi reared around the troopers and came to a stop in front of him and his three brothers. She lacked the bulky robes of most Jedi, instead she wore tight trousers and what looked like half a shirt—highly impractical, he decided. Her black hair hung in braids down to her shapely hips, and her face was perfectly symmetrical. From afar, he could tell she was what most species would _qualify_ as beautiful. But up close…he was suddenly acutely aware of her proximity and his own rapidly increased discomfort.

“RC-3192.” Commander Aasa spoke with a pleasing lilt to her voice that seemed to demand E’tad’s absolute attention—but she wasn't talking to him. “A word, if you please.”

“Yes, Commander.” The squad leader’s charm passed easily through his helmet's outbound speakers.

E’tad watched the two of them walk off to the side. The Commander stopped, too close to Beten to have been deemed proper by regulations standards. Beten’s helmet remained on, though his head was bowed slightly and nodded every few moments as if he were speaking or agreeing with her. E’tad couldn’t tell.

For a moment he felt strange, but the longer he prodded the emotion, the faster he realized what it was that bothered him—he was jealous. E’tad crushed the thought and turned his back to the two, though he kept an eye on them anyway via the 360° panoramic view his helmet’s Heads-Up Display offered.

With a few blinks, E’tad opened a private channel between him and his _real_ brother, though he would never express such thoughts out loud.

“What kind of leader is this _shabuir?_ ” E’tad blurted.

“ _Besom_ ,” Mute replied. “With a lot of _gett’se?_ ”

“I don’t like him.”

His brother’s long, heavy sigh was the only response he received.

Bha'lir Squad’s private comm channel, shared between the four of them, flashed. E’tad switched back over in time to hear Beten’s cocky chuckle. “I think she has a thing for me _vode_.”

 _The nerve…_ E’tad thought bitterly. To say such a thing while he was _still speaking_ with the Commander!

“So?” Mute asked.

“So we need to ship out of here, and fast,” Toss replied.

Beten saluted the Commander and returned to his squad, outwardly displaying no change in behavior. But somehow, _somehow,_ E'tad knew there was a stupid, self-satisfied smirk on Squad Leader's face.

“What?” E’tad tried and failed to keep the irritation from his voice.

“Why?” Mute asked. He sounded amused, but E’tad could read the bewilderment in his brother’s stance.

“Nothing serious,” Beten replied smoothly, and then clapped E’tad amiably on the shoulder as he walked past. E'tad barely quashed the urge to rip off the leader’s helmet and smack him in the face. “Just hoping our next assignment will be on the other side of the galaxy.”

“Yeah,” said Toss as he strolled shoulder-to-shoulder with Beten, leaving behind E'tad and his _real_ brother. “Better start packing.”

E’tad's hand twitched. He crushed the impulse to pull out his DC-17m, with anti-armor attachment, and blow new holes into 3192 and 5163’s armored backs. He then briefly debated shutting off all comm channels and cursing his throat raw within the safe confines of his helmet, but soon dismissed that plan as well.

The ill-mannered _shabuir_ was going to get them all killed. He just knew it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't like him either, E'tad.


	4. Sweat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every clone trooper has a different way of prepping mentally for upcoming missions, but even with the habit, Toss can't shake his bad feelings.

**Low Altitude Assault Transport/infantry, en-route to drop point,  
Bothrinaan, Outer Rim, 429 days after Geonosis**

 

 

“What the _haran_ are you doing?”

“He can't hear you.”

Toss' head bounced softly to the smooth tones of lounge glizz music thrumming within his helmet. He wasn't nervous. He rarely felt that way. But that had become his own little irrational ritual prior to every assignment. A requirement. A habit. One he wasn't inclined to share with anyone else. And so far, there were only two times in the past where he hadn't listened to the music.

He didn't think about what happened on those missions.

Today's grocery list: Asset denial. Sabotage a weapons processing facility. Take out the power grid.

Committed the factory layout to memory? Check. Unnecessary, since his helmet's Heads-Up Display had the map available on command, but he couldn't trust tech. Not fully. Not after that time.

In the cramped LAAT/i compartment sat him and his three brothers. Two new, one old—one he decanted with, even. Processed in a tube and grown from a fetus practically side by side. Their designation numbers didn't show it, but inconsistencies like that were numerous enough in the GAR. If one looked hard enough, anyway.

Right then though, Toss only looked across to his squad leader and pod brother Beten. Beside him sat Mute, new brother, head slightly bowed towards the squad leader as if they were having a conversation. And maybe they were. Toss couldn't tell. He was in his own private world within his helmet—just him and the music.

To his right sat E'tad. From Toss' panoramic view, he could tell E'tad was uncomfortable. But that didn't bother Toss. He'd loosen up eventually. Toss didn't know what those two had gone through, but he knew what it was like to lose half his squad. Half his world.

Unless E'tad was a must-follow-regs sort of guy. Beten didn't like those types. He'd never say so, but Toss knew his brother like he knew himself. And he knew himself pretty well, maybe _too_ well. But that shouldn’t have come as a surprise. Beten was always there for him.

Except for that one time. That one time, it was _Toss_ who was there for _Beten_. No music, back then. No time.

 _Don’t go there. Don’t go there, idiot,_ he cursed himself. But he did, he _did_ go there. His pod brother was all he had left.

Okay. No. That was definitely not something he should think—he had E'tad and Mute now, right?—but he couldn't help those thoughts.

 _So much for positivity..._ Toss sighed inwardly. That's what happened when he didn't sedate himself for sleep. He'd see things. When he woke he felt like he never closed his eyes. It didn't help that the dull ache of _something_ kept him up a night. A tiredness in his bones that kept him tossing and turning and unable to slow down, shut down, be quiet and pass the _frack_ out.

His mouth felt dry and his tongue stuck to the roof, as if he'd been chewing a ball of cobwebs. He could feel the beads of perspiration as they formed at his temples and slicked down the sides of his face, hidden from his brothers by his helmet. But at least his hands didn't shake. They hadn't done that in a long time, not since he'd first gotten the idea to stab the point of a medispray into the crook of his arm and pull the trigger.

He had to stop. He didn't know how to stop.

A notification flashed as his pod brother pinged his private channel. Toss always allowed Beten instant, free access, but his brother never used the override. He _always_ asked first.

Toss squinted. Ow. His eyes suddenly hurt. His throat clenched. His chest ached. He pinged back the affirmative. His brother joined him.

A song rolled by as the two of them listened in silence. Then another. The LAAT/i bounced in flight. The blast doors were shut to keep them safe, but it also left them blind. At the mercy of the pilot, a guy named Crawl. Weird name for a pilot.

Another song rolled by. E'tad bumped helmets with Mute, their hands clenched around the forearms of one another. Private time. It would take some heavy gunning to get the four of them on the same team, mind-wise. That was okay though. Toss knew the next mission would do it.

He couldn't shake the nasty ball of “bad feeling” in his gut.

Across the lower portion of the HUD scrolled a text notification from the pilot.

 

— **INSERTION POINT ETA FIVE MINUTES**

 

“Let's switch to external, _T'ika_.” Beten spoke gently. It was the voice Toss never heard him use for anyone except _him_.

“Yes sir.” He shut off the music and switched over to the squad's channel.

Their helmets broadcasted wide enough to include the pilot of the larty, a consideration other squads might not have shown. Beten was just that kind of guy.

“Intel says likely to be minimal resistance.” E'tad sounded miffed, like something was shoved too far up his cargo hold. Toss smiled.

“Intel says a lot of things,” Beten replied smoothly. “I prefer a more... personal assessment before we barrel in head first.”

“Minimal resistance means bang in and bang out, right? A pleasant surprise?” Toss asked. “I _like_ it.”

“Like a birthday present,” Mute added.

“Never got one of those.”

“Me either. They're supposed to be _nice._ ”

“And not a surprise, _di'kute_ ,” E'tad snapped.

Beten shrugged, an oddly difficult feat given the heavy Katarn armor they all wore. “They all look pretty surprised in the holodramas.”

“That's because they have to pretend they don't expect it.”

“...I don't get it.”

“Me either.”

“Weird.”

E'tad sighed. “If they pretend they don't expect it, they always seem to get something much more expensive and pretty than if they acted uninterested.”

“Surprise does not automatically equate to interest, though,” Beten pointed out.

Crawl chose that moment to noisily clear his throat, and then drawled: “If you boys are done discussing the most mundane of mundane...” Their pilot paused to let loose a yawn, and then added: “Red Light. Stand by.”

The emergency lights flickered on. A dull red glow tainted everything within the internal compartments, including them.

What did Toss remember from the briefing? Hot, dusty, planet. Civil unrest. Dotted with processing facilities. Take out one, potentially take out the rest. With well placed ordnance, of course. The center of the power grid rested under this CIS weapons facility. The workers... mostly droids. Some wets. But wets were normally held in interment camps at night, which just so happened to be the time of the day they planned to insert.

Simple.

The emergency lights flickered from red to green.

“Bring me back a present." Crawl yawned again. "It's my _birthday_.”

The blast doors hissed open to the dead of night. An old landing platform, looking more mis-used than _out of use_ , wavered unsteadily below them.

Toss braced his knees and exited. He hit the ground, swerved to press his back to the wall beside the single available door, and keyed his long-range scanner. The larty rose off silently into the night. His scanner picked up zero hostiles outside the compound, but noticed an odd amount of interference coming from the next room, which could only mean one thing.

"Picking up some electrical signatures behind this door," he hummed with a smile. "Must be tinnies."

Mute tapped the doorpanel twice, grunted, and then stepped away from the door. "I can't slice this, it's rusted over," he complained. "Someone should get management down here and scrap these slackers."

"We'll just have to do this the old fashioned way." Beten set the charges to the rusted-over door. Then he took cover with the rest of them.

“Ready... Three... Two...”

Whoomph.

“ _Take take take._ ”

Toss veered around the corner, DC-17m pointed into the darkness. His HUD flashed. Hostile. Hostile. Hostile. His weapon cuffed in his gloved hands as he fired off several rounds into a droid. Metal flashed and ricocheted in the dark. Oil splattered his visor. He turned along the right wall and bashed a metal head with the butt of his rifle. It went down as he fired into another. And another.

Weapon flashes lit up the room in uneven bursts.

It was over in a few seconds.

“Clear.”  
“Clear.”  
“All clear Squad Leader.”

Fifteen droids on the ground, in pieces and oil-slicked puddles between the three rows of terminals that lined the room. No alarm sounded. Just silence.

“My chin itches,” Toss said. It was code for _I don't like this_ , something only his dead brother used to say. But he wasn't around anymore, and Toss was now the one with the goatee.

“I hear that,” Beten replied smoothly. Confident. Always in control. “You're up, Toss.”

Toss creeped forward. His Deece clacked as he locked in the Sniper Attachment and flicked on the scope. Small misshaped dots blipped across his mini-map, marking hostiles down the halls ahead of him.

Asset denial. Asset denial. Easy.

He couldn't shake the knot in his gut.

 


	5. Lovely

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He loves slicing, loves it almost as much as girls and counting medpac supplies.

**Separatist Weapons Factory, Bothrinaan, Tantoudal System, Outer Rim**

 

Information streamed past Mute's eyes as his fingers flew across the terminal panel. Covering his position was the Squad Leader, firing off an endless volley of rounds over his head, blue bolts streaking past to lay droid after droid to waste. Slicing was a tough business, but Mute loved it. Loved it almost as much as girls and counting medpac supplies.

The central power generators of the facility stood in a hollow chamber that stretched from the surface down twenty levels underground. Weapon parts zipped by on conveyor belts that criss-crossed the empty chamber. Or they should have. An explosion and a flash of light rocked five levels above Mute, shaking metal parts free of the belts to rain down over them.

“ _Fierfek,_ ” Beten laughed.

“Oh look sir, more droids…” Toss hummed. “Blew out a circuit and blocked a door up here. Did you see it?”

“From all the way down here. Was a real lovely shade of blue, _vod_.”

“Not to be _rude_ or anything,” E'tad hissed. “But we're _stuck_ in here.”

Mute sighed. “Don't rush a master.”

“By the time _The Master_ is done I'll have a bright white beard.”

Toss clucked. “Face fuzz wouldn't look so bad on you, old man.”

“Old man? _Old man?_ I'll show you ol—”

Mute pounded in the last line of code. One of the dozen five meter vertical turbines began to howl, spinning faster and faster beyond what it was made for. Mute peered around his terminal and shot a battle droid in its chest cavity. It spun in an arc, its weapon flying through the air as it collided with the droids behind him.

“Ding,” Mute said. “Caffa's done.”

A thin trail of smoke rose from the out-of-control turbine. Bright flashes of silver light crackled in the chamber, followed closely by a blinding explosion. A tremor shook the ground under his feet.

“Fire in the hole,” Beten breathed.

A canister flew overhead, bounced past the row of terminals and into the line of droids blocking them from the control room. _PING!_ Static crackled in his ears as his helmet struggled to filter out white noise. A droid head bounced to his left and skidded to a stop. Black oil pooled beneath its severed neck as its dead visual sensors focused on him.

“Barrier's down,” E'tad hissed.

“Take cover,” Toss replied airily. “Three... two...”

_Whoomph._

Bits of plexiglass and transparisteel blew out in a shining cloud. Chunks of duracrete and electrical equipment rained down on the droids below. Before the dust had settled, the lines of droids blocking Mute and Beten’s way fell apart in a barrage of blue blaster fire.

“Your escort has arrived,” Toss announced with a flourish of his blaster.

“My heroes,” Beten replied with a low laugh. “All right, let’s blow this factory a new _cargo hold_ and get the _haran_ out of here.”

“Preferably not in that order,” E’tad huffed, but Mute knew better. He could hear the reluctant humor in his brother’s response.

Mute smiled to himself as he climbed over the terminal, sifted carefully through the scattered debris, and then bodily heaved himself into the control room. His spot lamp shone into a corner, deece leveled and ready, heart hammering in his chest. His brothers were right behind him.

Nothing came out of the dark. Nothing winked to life, shouted Roger Roger, or laid down heavy fire over his head.

“All clear,” said Beten. “All right, Mute. You know what to do.”

Indeed he did. “You spoil me, sir.” The medic kicked aside a stool and plugged into the nearest, biggest terminal.

“Toss, watch his back.”

“Yes sir.”

“E’tad, with me. I’ve got a real pretty explosive vision in mind, and I want to make sure we’ll make my dreams come true.”

“If you don’t mind me saying so, sir, you’re out of your _shabla_ mind.”

“I appreciate your assessment, _chaavl’ika_.”

“ _Ch-chaavla?!_ ”

“It means unrul—”

“ _I know what it means!_ ”

As the lines of information streamed past his eyes and his hands flew over the data panel, Mute could only smile… and ignore the faint trill of cold fear in his gut as the terminal responded.

“Facility’s on unscheduled lockdown, courtesy of yours truly,” he said. “But we’ll only have seven minutes of clearance. Then lockdown switches off and all secondary access ways are open again.”

“Starting when?”

“Oh… about ten seconds ago.”

A sigh echoed in his ears. “ _Fierfek._ ”

“No pretty explosions, Sarge?”

“Affirmative, Toss.”

“Good,” E’tad grumbled. “S’long as it does its job it’s good enough.”

“Maybe for you, _chaav_ ,” Beten replied affectionately. “Maybe for you.”

“I don’t know,” said Mute. “I kind of like the odd splash of color thrown in here and there.”

Lines of code flashed past his eyes. Doors opening and closing at uneven intervals. Movement seventeen levels above them. Conveyor belts brought to a complete stop. The movement… why was there movement? He touched the datascreen, hands flying over the controls as he scanned the hundreds of maximized security-cam windows.

And then he saw it. The moving, swaying, marching wall of rusted red metal and black polished blasters.

“I do believe we’re having guests,” said a voice that felt very far away, but was in fact his own. As if he were suddenly kicked in the gut, he struggled to take in a calming breath. His muscles tensed and readied themselves for another fight.

“How many?”

“A lot, sir.” Mute swallowed. “A lot.”

“P for Plenty, then,” Beten ordered. “Check the facility blueprints. See if we can find another way out.”

“We’re pretty far underground,” said E’tad.

“If we have to blast our way out, then we will.”

Toss cleared his throat. “I don’t think we—”

Mute temporarily switched off the audio for his comm chat. _That was enough talking for the moment. Yeah? Yeah._ His fingers flew across the datapanel. A small blue holo rose in front of his visor and rotated—the facility blueprints. There was nothing, no alternate exit that he could see. Intel effectively dropped them in a well without a bucket-on-a-line to call for help. Brilliant.

He just met these guys. He wanted to befriend them, love them, make them family—not bury them.

A gloved hand touched his shoulder. Mute didn’t have to turn around, his helmet let him see everywhere at once, but he did anyway. His red visor looked straight up into an orange one. An alert flashed at the corner of his screen. He hit confirm and his brother connected with him.

“Saw you turned off your audio,” Toss said as he leaned past Mute to plug into the terminal beside his. “I understand. Can get a little noisy, sometimes.”

“Yeah.” Mute's fingers flew over the datascreen as he activated an engineer's console—a slicer specialty. He pulled up the level where the droid regiment was jammed. Him and his brothers had made quite a large ruckus earlier and effectively blocked many of the major corridors leading to the lower levels. They had time, but a minute, minute-half max, wasn’t quite enough to set up enough detonite to blow a crater the size of a thousand year old hutt’s backside and get out alive—and that's without running into a couple hundred droids.

Not to mention a stray blaster bolt could set the explosives off, and then what? Objective achieved. _Only_ four casualties. _Only_ several hundred thousand credits down the drain—the cost of their armor and weapons.

An alert flashed once at the corner of the screen before an override brought the audio for the main comm channel back online.

“Sorry to cut solo time short, but it's going to rain blaster fire on us real soon. Any way to slow that down?”

Mute checked the engineering datascreen. Code streamed over the feed from the terminal, forming a picture in Mute's head.

“Well Sarge, I have an idea. I can reroute power to the turbines in the upper levels, they might cause them to blow and take out the platoon—or at least keep them busy for another couple minutes.”

“Any risks?”

“Best case, none.” He paused as he entered in a bit of _persuasive programming_. The holomap opened up to him then, baring the old skeletal network of a previous facility located in their location. “Worst case, the damage we left to the infrastructure leaves the base unstable. Any redirection could blow back and wipe us out, or cause a cave-in. Could go either way.”

“Found us an exit?”

Mute smiled as he focused the map and... _there._ A small access hatch to an old security tunnel. “An old access tunnel about twenty meters from us. It might take us to the surface, but even if it doesn’t and the blast goes off early, we might be out of range for the facility’s collapse.”

“Those are two big maybes,” Toss clucked his teeth again. 

“Damned if you do, damned if you don't.” Beten chuckled. “We need the time. Can you do it?”

“I can set up, should be done by the time you set the dets.”

“It's a race. Couple droids headed your way. I'll leave you both to it.” Beten's signature winked out from their private channel.

The seconds ticked by in Mute's head, punctuated by the flashes from Toss' blaster overhead. He fired off a few shots of his own, before Toss unplugged himself from the console and moved away. The sound of heavy breathing echoed over their channel as he hopped the terminal and ducked behind a half-wall whose windows, blown out from their earlier disagreement, opened to the turbine room. 

“Is your training sergeant still alive?” Toss asked.

“Mine?” The sudden topic threw him for a loop. “Our Sarge's around—a Mando Feeorin. Tamfrr Kord.”

“Oh.” Toss clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “So _you_ guys had the Feeorin, huh? Bet _that_ was interesting.”

“He drove us hard,” Mute admitted. “But the man spoiled us some, too. Left us uj-cake in the strangest of places.”

“Really? That explains the slice of uj I found just sitting by a vent shaft exit once.”

“What?” Mute exclaimed. “You’re kidd—”

Blaster fire pinged over head, followed by the irritated murmurs of a battle droid.

Toss laughed as he peeked out from the wall and let loose a round. The squeal of the droid was cut short by repeated blaster-fire. The scattering of parts sung in Mute's ears. 

“Got that last one.”

“And here I was worried I had to do _all_ the work.” Mute smiled. “Who was your training sergeant?”

“A kiffar. Bera Solarus.”

“Bera? That woman was a spitfire. Is she still with the GAR?” 

“She died.” The words fell flat, as if he couldn’t muster up the energy to feel it anymore.

“Yeesh,” Mute replied without bite. “Sorry.”

“It happens.” He paused on a breath.

The Squad Leader's notification blinked again before pulling them back into their shared channel.

“Mute, detonite is set,” said Beten. “Ready?”

“Yeah,” Mute breathed. “Reroute in progress. 30 seconds to get clear.”

“We're on your six. Lead the way.”

Mute didn’t need to be told twice. He holstered his weapon, jumped over the security terminal, and hauled _shebs_ towards the access tunnel. Part of him wanted to look back, to make sure his brothers were following, but he knew that was unnecessary—the miniature box-views of what his brothers saw hovered over each of their status icons, and they chased his tail.

That was odd. Being a medic, he rarely took point.

Mute grabbed hold of his deece. _Better be safe than shot at,_ he giggled nervously to himself as he rounded the corner.

“Hostiles coming out the metalwork,” E’tad announced. 

Red icons winked across Mute's scanner in agreement.

Thirteen meters left.

A stray battle droid stumbled out of a side closet just as Mute barreled by. Without thinking twice, the vibroblade in his gauntlet shot out with a _shu-shunk_ and sliced through the tinnie’s neck like a hot blade through blue butter. Oil splashed his visor. He kept running.

Five meters.

Blaster bolts pinged overhead. 

Three.

The duracrete walls erupted around them.

Two.

Mute slammed his foot into the old-fashioned door. It exploded off its hinges and scattered across the dirty metal floor. His helmet's spot lamp filled the room. A thick layer of dust clogged the air. A security panel beeped to the left. 

And then time slowed down. The ground kicked up _hard._ His armor cracked against the floor. The walls screeched as metal dragged against metal. GENERATOR MALFUNCTION flashed repeatedly across all status feeds from the security mainframe. 

A void of silence filled the air. 

Suddenly, the simultaneous howls of the turbines spinning out of control blasted down the corridor. 

There was a time on Kamino when he wasn’t focused on pure flash training. The security had been lax that day, and he had managed to sneak outside, just beyond the walls of the Kaminoan facility. It was one of the few days where it didn’t rain. Summer on Kamino was short, and he managed to savor one day. And on that day, he remembered seeing a mass, an enormous moving mass of silver. At first, he didn’t understand what it was. But as the mass moved, neared him, and took in the system’s star’s rays, he realized what he saw, and what he heard.

It was the call of a thousand aiwha migrating together. 

He hadn’t thought of that day since… well, since Geonosis.

A heady roar lit up the hall. A solid mass of black and metal, smoke and fire, overtook the line of droids in the hall. Obliterated them. The world shook. The wall rushed towards him. Towards his brothers. 

Mute threw himself to his feet. Ejected his vibroblade. _Shu-shunk._

He slammed it into the only panel he could see and directed a burst of energy from his Katarn armor into the system. Liquid fire exploded through his veins as thousands of volts overloaded the security fucntions and blew back, _ripping_ through his body.

 _What a way to die,_ he thought. _Electrocuted before I'm buried ali—_

And then his world went dark.

 


	6. Breathe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But his mind still felt shaken, scattered, as if someone tossed him into a cleaner and left him on spin for a cycle.

**Sominar City, Qubbev IX, Carazin System, Outer Rim,  
322 days after Geonosis**

 

“Sergeant, Bravo Squad, Lambda...” 

“Answer the question.”

“...Company, number RC-three-one-nine-two.”

“If that is how you want it to be, _shag._ ”

His voice cracked. He couldn't see, and the darkness only forced him to focus. Focus on the thing, the thing crawling inside him. Digging. Twisting. His pulse pounded in his ears and tears streamed from between his swollen eyelids. Liquid fire pooled in his abdomen. He couldn't feel his legs.

It was beyond questions, now. Somehow he knew. He sensed it. They stopped asking. They stopped talking. All he could hear was his erratic heartbeat.

And the faint sound of muffled screams from the next room.

He screwed up. He screwed up an already screwed up mission. They abandoned them. Their commander pulled the troopers out and left them behind. That was what they were made for, after all: troopers were expendable. Commandos were expendable. But it wasn't fair.

How could they do that to his brother? Do that to him?

_Take me. Please take me. Just let him go. Let Verco go._

The cold, sticky feel of reptilian skin touched his arm. A pinprick past the skin of the back of his hand. Ice in his veins. Spreading. Slithering up his arm.

He didn't think he had the energy to fight, but fear was an excellent motivator. Something clenched tight in his chest and he struggled. His limbs jerked against their bindings. His skin split under his restraints. But it wasn't enough. _It wasn't enough._

Useless. No one was coming.

The ice reached his heart.

 

 

**Separatist Weapons Factory, Bothrinaan, Tantoudal System, Outer Rim,  
430 days after Geonosis**

 

 

“Mute? _Mute?_ ”

 _E'tad?_ Beten snapped back to the present and mentally shook himself. _Wake up, di'kut_.

He stared into pitch black, which couldn’t have been possible unless he was dead. Beten didn’t feel dead, though. In fact, he hurt too much to be anything but very much alive.

“ _Ner vod! Tenn gar sur'haaise. Tenn gar sur'haaise! Mut'ika!_ _ **Mut'ika!”**_ _Brother! Open your eyes. Open your eyes! Mute!_ _ **Mute!**_

“Move your hands. Clear.”

_Shoomp._

His Heads-Up Display should have remained active, unless his helmet sustained some massive damage or a stray hit of an EMP device grazed his armor. It wasn’t impossible, just unlikely—but since nothing felt broken, he decided not to dwell on the _how_ for the time being. But his mind still felt shaken, scattered, as if someone tossed him into a cleaner and left him on spin for a cycle.

 _Keep it together, idiot,_ Beten hissed silently in his head. _At least until we’re out of here._

The past was in the past. He couldn’t change it. There was no point wasting energy on memories. Beten gave himself another mental shake and then slapped his fingers against the bottom of his helmet a few times until he found the catch. The seal popped with a hiss and his useless _buy'ce_ clattered to the ground.

“ _Tayli bat. Nu'nari baslani ni, Mut'ika. Gar nu'lise baslani ni._ ” _Hold on. Don’t leave me, Mute. You can’t leave me._

A dark shape knelt beside a body on the ground, holding onto his hand and rocked slightly on his heels. A second shadow placed portable, hand sized squares to the body's chest—portable defibrillator pads. The first dropped the hand he held and moved back.

“Clear.”

_Shoomp._

The body jerked, arching up off the floor.

Beten rubbed his face and climbed to his feet. He forced the pain, the fear, the anger, the curling horror, to the back of his mind, and reached out to his sides. He kept moving, fisting dusty air, until he struck the nearest wall. With another few blind graspings he found the second wall and pushed his back into a corner. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, but once they did he almost wished they hadn't. A spot-lamp from one of his brothers’ helmets angled down into the floor, giving just enough illumination to tell that they were trapped in a small, empty, square space.

Once that fact sunk in, his heart jumped, and his breath caught in his throat.

Small, enclosed space. Dark. Finite air supply. Exits blocked.

 _Breathe,_ he told himself. _Just breathe._

“Pulse's back, steady,” Toss stated.

E'tad let out a choked sob. “ _Vor'e te Manda. Vor'e Manda._ ” _Thank the Manda. Thank Manda._

Something in his genes made the enclosed space seem worse than it was. Logically, he knew there was no immediate danger. If the walls hadn’t collapsed by now, then they had time. But that didn’t help the cold, bitter taste of horror stuck to the back of his throat. He had to focus. Mute was injured. They needed a way out.

His three brothers were by the far wall, a stack of armor neatly piled to the side. He took a guess and assumed it was Mute's—who else could it belong to? Beten gently tapped the walls to either side of him, his mind eager to compute the possibilities. Anything to avoid the crawling sensation traveling up his arms. Banging the floor and scraping the walls with his bare hands wasn’t going to get them anywhere.

Damage report? Exits were blocked. The single panel that controlled whatever else was in the room was effectively destroyed. They locked out the building collapse, but now they were locked inside. How the hell Mute thought that course of action was a good idea, he’d never be able to figure out. He’d have to ask him when he woke up.

Bypassed the metal. Hit the energy source past the wires. Shocked him into last week. Pretty _kriffing_ deep into durasteel. That took some skill.

And then it dawned on him. Beten glanced up.

“… _shab._ ”

There was no ceiling, only inky black shadow—shadow so dark he doubted that even a high powered spot-lamp, the kind their kit was fitted with, could cut through and hit the top.

Access tunnel. They were _inside_ the access tunnel.

Beten's attention fell back to his brothers. E'tad sat beside Mute, still holding on to his hand, with his head bowed. His lips moved but Beten could tell nothing came out. To the left of E'tad stood Toss, back to them and facing Mute's helmet with its lamp angled towards the floor.

It was a scene Beten wished he could record to holo.

The squad leader marched over to his brothers and knelt down, placing a hand on E'tad's shoulder. He half expected E’tad to yell, to throw his hand off and land a solid blow to his face—part of him felt he deserved a punch in the mouth—but E'tad did nothing of the sort. Instead, the temperamental clone only ceased his mutterings and looked at him.

“ _Kaysh morut'yc,_ ” E'tad whispered. “ _Morut'yc._ ” _He’s safe. Safe._

Suddenly Beten’s eyes stung. His vision blurred. He ignored it.

“I know, _ner vod_ ,” he said. “I know.”

“ _Mhi liniba baslanar._ ” _We need to leave._

“Agreed. Let’s get his armor back on,” Beten said. “We have a way out.”

“ _Me'ven? Vaii?_ ” _What? Where?_

Beten smiled softly as he pulled the pile of armor closer to them, and then pointed straight up. E'tad followed his gaze, his eyes slowly rolling up into his head as he angled towards the ceiling. His eyes widened as his mouth dropped open in an 'oh' of surprise.

“… _wayii._ ”

 


	7. Rough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And up until earlier that day, he wouldn’t have believed a planet could be so beautiful and so ugly—and so hot—all at the same time.

**Bothrinaan, Tantoudal System, Outer Rim, 431 days after Geonosis**

 

 

He was surrounded on all sides by red-orange sandstone. The double suns of the system shone high in the sky, and E’tad could see the waves of heat radiating off the ground. He would’ve sworn he was sweating from the heat, if he wasn’t aware that his suit’s systems kept his temperature regulated.

“It’s all in my head, Mute.” His voice echoed in the cavern. Behind him, his brother laid unconscious, safe from the suns within the shadow of the natural hole-in-the-wall. “All in my head.”

E’tad shifted his position and rested his right shoulder against the curved wall to his side. He scanned the landscape, tracing the jagged red cliffs with the scope of his deece. Dry and brutal—that’s what the planet was. It certainly resembled what he flash-learned on Kamino, but as the saying went, seeing was believing. And up until earlier that day, he wouldn’t have believed a planet could be so beautiful and so ugly—and so _shabla_ hot—all at the same time.

“I wish you could see this, Mute…” E’tad sighed. “I’m sure you’d be kicking rocks into that enormous crater we left in the ground.”

He pointed over to the left, at the stadium-sized hole roughly fifty meters from his position. His rangefinder lowered as he zoomed into the dark hole where the weapons factory had collapsed. Numbers flashed in front of his eyes as he queued a scan.

No hostiles. No lifeforms. He sighed again.

“Comms are down, _Mut’ika_. Beten and Toss went to scout around. Maybe find some locals.”

E’tad hoped they’d be back soon. There was a smell coming from his brother—a charred, cooked-flesh kind of odor—that made him _incredibly uncomfortable._ At first he tried to find the origin, despite the warnings Toss had given him, but once he realized he could not remove the bodysuit material from Mute’s arms…

Well. Here he was. Backplate to his brother, slightly shaking with fear and rage. He struggled to keep himself in check, struggled to pack away the anger for a later date. Sure, he wasn’t the rumored Null and Alpha ARCs with eidetic memory, but his was still _exceptional_. He would remember this to the finest detail, and then he would take it out on the enemy—whoever the enemy happened to be on this _kriffing_ planet.

He shifted his DC-17 to his other hand and rolled his shoulders. His muscles ached to high heaven, but he wouldn’t allow himself to rest. Not until Mute was okay. _Really okay._ Not unconscious comatose and smelling like nerf barbeque okay.

Flashes lit up an ingrained path in the distance. The landscape was practically composed of all towering stone ripped through by a web of winding paths twice his size in width. He lifted his deece and peered through the scope.

A beat passed. The flashes got brighter. And then…

E’tad’s heart jumped in his throat.

A youngling of some species he couldn’t immediately identify bolted out from between two tightly packed columns of broken orange sandstone, running at full speed despite the suns bearing down from above. The youngling didn’t scream, didn’t call for help, but E’tad could tell that _all_ of his energy was put into fleeing. But fleeing from what?

Stone shattered some distance behind the youngling, followed by two blurs of spinning rust red durasteel. _Droidekas._

E’tad didn’t think. He simply scrambled from his stationary position, launching over crumbling stone to an outcropping directly above the next path the youngling ran into. Blue flashes lit up the path below. E’tad pushed hard, his breath hoarse within his helmet. The edge of the outcropping loomed only five meters from him. Three. Two. One.

The ground left him. His muscles screamed. His lungs burned. He wondered if he timed this correctly.

And then his boots crashed into spinning metal, halting its full-speed roll with his collision. Metal _screeched_ against stone as the droideka skidded at break-neck speed.

His vibro-blade ejected with a _shu-shunk_.

Sparks flew against his visor as he jammed his fist past the outer layer of the droideka’s chest chassis. He twisted his blade, jerked his fist back, and then slammed into the durasteel a second time, breaking through.

“This looks _important,_ ” he hissed as he grabbed a fist full of wires and pulled. Dark, unidentifiable liquid squirted in all directions as wires _snapped._

The droideka skidded to a stop just as the path widened out into a small valley between several exceptionally tall crags. He turned to look back, and faintly registered the scraped lines in solid stone and occasional spurts of liquid that stretched from impact right up to his position.

His HUD flashed in warning. A plume of red dust flew into the air as the second droideka performed a sharp u-turn in the valley and barreled towards him.

“ _Fierfek._ ” E’tad tore an EMP grenade from his toolkit and launched it in the droid’s path. In typical droid fashion, it made no attempts to avoid the device.

Static blue electricity exploded from the EMP. The droideka did not cease rolling, but E’tad had a feeling he should have expected that. Objects in motion tended to stay in motion, after all.

The commando dove to the side just as the rolling piece of scrap metal launched past him. He skidded across the stone on his back-plate, his deece’s anti-armor attachment snapping into place. His weapon chuffed in his hands as a round launched out the end, and slammed into the ground just behind the droideka. The explosion ripped apart the droid and the stone, sending shards of durasteel and stone alike in all directions.

What was left of the droideka lurched to a stop, oozing black fuel. A silent moment passed as E’tad stared blankly at the thing, still breathing heavy. Another beat passed, and then a chunk of the scrap-heap’s frame broke loose to clatter into the pool of its own fuel.

He should have felt elated. Instead, the sight disturbed him.

“ _Fierfek,_ ” he groaned again, and let his helmeted head fall back to the dirt underneath him. The dusty yellow sky, devoid of any clouds to speak of, arched above him.

He counted the seconds in his head, and resolved to get his damn _shebs_ up within the next minute. But before his sixty seconds were up, a shadow blocked his view of the sky.

“That was awesome!” the youngling panted. “Thanks, friend! _Who are you?_ ”

E’tad dug his elbows into the ground and sat up. The kid staggered backwards, and then doubled over as if he suddenly needed more air than was available. Aside from the pointed ears and wide-set eyes, the youngling looked human from the waist up… but below, instead of legs, he had haunches with hooves and fur.

He decided the youngling must be a native. “I’m…” he started

Suddenly the boy’s eyes rolled back into his head, and his body relaxed. E’tad cursed and lurched across the ground, catching the kid in his outstretched arms before he managed to hit stone. The commando stared at the youngling in his arms, and promptly decided this was _not his best day ever._

Kicking up red dust in his haste, E’tad hugged the boy to his chest, climbed to his feet, and then jogged back to the hiding place where he left his unconscious brother. 


	8. Strike

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Details, Toss decided, weren’t all too important right now.

**Bothrinaan, Tantoudal System, Outer Rim, Four Hours Later**

 

 

Toss saw it coming. That didn't make it hurt less.

 _Whap!_ The wet smack of gloved knuckles colliding with flesh echoed in the small cave. Toss staggered to the left, hit the damp stone wall, and clattered to the ground.

“Ow,” he said.

“ _Di'kut,_ ” E'tad hissed.

“A little late to the party there, eh?” Beten asked, not moving to help Toss up. That stung a little.

“Should've told _Mut'ika_ what we were gonna—”

“ _Mut'ika_ switched off his comm,” Beten interrupted calmly. “And he's the one who warned us of the risks.”

“You don't _get to call him that._ ” E'tad's fist collided with Beten's jaw. Toss watched in dull horror as the squad leader hit the ground a few meters from Mute's prone and sleeping form.

In a low voice, E'tad added: “You don't know _osik_.” 

Toss looked from Mute to Beten, back to Mute, and then the aged sentient with open palms splayed over Mute’s body. The old man was a native of the planet, an Eqine healer by the name of Esseg. He wasn't sure if that was his first or last name, but Toss thought better than to ask. And anyway, he didn't really want to talk to the healer. The haunches, hooves, fur, and horns disturbed Toss enough on their own, but with the added _mystical healing…_ well, it was a little too much to handle in one package.

But Beten took to them rather quickly, so Toss didn't object. Not out loud, anyway.

“Mute lacks basic individual survival instinct. No common sense. No desire to put himself before others.”

“Sounds like every other medic I know,” Toss offered.

“Don’t you joke,” E'tad's voice shuddered and cracked as he took a step towards Toss. “Don’t you _kriffing_ joke about that—”

“ _Tad’ika_ …?” a voice croaked not far from him. “Nu nyni gar vode.” _Don’t hit your brothers._

E’tad froze. He turned very, _very,_ slowly on his heel, lips pressed tight in a thin line. Mute, whose eyes were open, watched him with an exhausted, exasperated, expression.

“Too. Uh. T-too…” E’tad couldn’t get the words out, so he bit the back of his gauntlet and dropped to his knees beside his brother.

“Beten… was right,” Mute whispered. “You are _chaavla._ ”

“H-hey!”

Beten laughed, still laid out on the floor, before propping himself up with one arm and turned towards the Eqine. “Thank you, sir,” Beten said with an easy smile.

The Healer merely smiled enigmatically in return, which caused the long beard of his to twitch as he took hold of his staff, and then limped over to the other unconscious patient on the ground.

Toss wasn’t sure, but he vaguely remembered E’tad saying something about an incredibly risky fight he waged against duo droidekas, and the prize he won was that Eqine youngling. At least, that’s what he garnered from the rapid-fire explanation before his brother’s knuckles rammed his face. 

Details, Toss decided, weren’t all too important right now.

He gently probed his jaw with his finger tips. Nothing was broken, but he had a feeling he’d be greeted with a multicolor wonder the next time he looked into a mirror. Which, in hindsight, wasn’t so bad—the bruise could disguise the dark circles under his eyes, and then he wouldn’t have to spend his morning talking to himself inside his helmet, coming up with different explanations for the obvious lack of sleep to the questions. Questions that no one ever asked him.

But they might. And he wanted to be prepared if they did.

“Can you help him?” E’tad asked. “I reacted as fast as I could but—”

“Shoo’ can, young man,” the Eqine interrupted gently, and tapped his staff against the ground. “But there's nothin’ wrong wi’ this 'un. Pretendin’ to be out, but he been awake for a while now.”

“Hey!” the Eqine youngling gasped as he quickly sat up. “How’d you know?”

“Know a prankster when I sees ‘un.” The old healer twirled his staff in a way that belied his age, and then whacked the youngling upside the head with it. Then he limped back towards Mute, and gave a good whack to E’tad.

“ _Ah!_ ”

“Manners, young man. Y'need to learn some.”

Toss blinked, and then quietly reassessed his opinion of Esseg. For some reason, he suddenly liked the old man.


	9. Help

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How does he live with his mistakes? The shadows didn't answer him.

**Bothrinaan, Tantoudal System, Outer Rim, 432 days after Geonosis**

 

 

Mute stared blankly at the other side of the canvas hut with his spine locked rigidly straight and his feet stretched out straight on the ground in front of him. A thin sheet of cream-colored cloth bunched around his waist, barely long enough to cover his legs to his ankles. To his right, a single small lamp sat on a stool and cast just enough light to illuminate his legs down to his exposed feet, but not much else.

If he had the urge to reach out his left hand, he would have grazed the pile of armor plates, the folded remains of what was left of his bodysuit, his boots, a pair of charred gloves—extra crispy—an opened medkit, a DC-17m, and the pack that carried the rest of his kit. But he didn’t have that inclination.

He only cared to continue staring at the wall.

The hut he occupied was empty, except for him and his stuff. Other sleep mats lined his side of the wall, three to his left and one to his right, past the lamp. The space protected by canvas and wooden beams was circular in shape, and roughly five meters in diameter. The opposite wall he stared at had a single flap that acted as a door to the outside world, but other than that it was devoid of any unusual markings or accessories. The entire hut was devoid of unnecessary furniture, which vaguely reminded Mute of sparsely decorated medbays.

A harshly bitter taste lingered at the back of his throat. His stomach curled every couple of seconds, but he couldn’t tell if he was hungry, thirsty, or nauseous. He felt his fingers twitch of their own accord, fisted in the material bunched over his legs. On some level, he could sense the blazing fire of pain in his hands—but thanks to the painkillers Toss had on hand, he was mostly numb to it.

They didn’t teach him how to deal with this _osik_ in Basic Training. He couldn’t even muster up the energy to _look_ at his hands. Seeing a mess of roasted, melted, peeled skin and abnormally fast-healing scars once was enough to last him a lifetime.

So he just stared at the distant wall.

He wanted to say _at least he didn’t have to bury his brothers,_ or _it could be worse, you could be dead,_ but it didn’t help him the first time. Or the second time. Or the fifth time. He squeezed his hands around the material and felt his skin stretch painfully. A muscle spasm forced him to release the sheet.

“Ow,” he said.

“I felt that one,” he said.

“How do I live with my mistake?”

The shadows did not answer him. He was wholly unsurprised.

Mute briefly considered lying back down and giving in to his exhaustion, but quickly discarded that idea. He had only been awake for five hours. Dawn would come soon on this planet, despite Galactic Standard Time clocking the current moment at somewhere past three in the morning. He didn’t want to sleep just yet.

With a sigh, he closed his eyes and took a deep, slow, inhale. He held it in, counting the seconds in his head until his lungs shook and ached and his head pounded with the pressure. The exhale came out in a _woosh_ of air past his lips. He choked on his next breath, coughing and hacking so hard his throat hurt and his eyes began to tear.

He went on choking for a few minutes, and when he stopped he felt a little better. His eyes hurt though, and his cheeks felt suspiciously wet.

The flap to his hut moved.

Before he could think things through, he was up and off the sleep mat, crouched to the side with his DC-17m whirring to life and zeroed in on…

…a young, female Eqine, with a bowl held in her hands. His heart skipped a beat, and for a moment he wondered if he would go into cardiac arrest again.

“Yes,” she said with a glint in her eye and her lips curled in a pleasant smile, “This water is _very dangerous._ ”

Needless to say, Mute felt foolish standing there with his deece, in his boxers, and nothing else.

“Sorry,” he grunted roughly. “I. Uh.”

His head swam. He gently set his deece down, and then simply sat cross-legged on the ground where he was—there was no way he’d be able to keep his balance to return to his mat, not without crawling, and he was not about to do that in front of the female.

“It’s okay,” she said with a wink. Her hooves clicked softly on the ground as she approached him.

For some odd reason, Mute could not take his eyes off her. From what little light there was, he could tell her hair was a dark color, and hung in several braids down her back. The dress she wore dipped low on her chest, secured by a high-wasted belt, and tapered off halfway down her thigh. She wore no shoes, probably due to the fact that she had haunches and hooves and was decidedly _near–_ human—not baseline—but his pulse still pounded and his blood still ran hot, reaching his cheeks… and other areas.

She came to a stop, and then knelt in front of him, her knees almost touching his… but not quite. The bowl she held took a strange, dulled red color under the lamplight, and the liquid inside sparkled as she whispered softly, incoherently into it. Then she lowered it to the ground beside them.

Green, he noted. The color of her eyes. That much he could see for sure.

“Hi,” she said as she pulled a small slip of cloth from the pouch on her hip. Then she leaned forward and gently brought it to his cheeks.

He pulled back in surprise, suddenly embarrassed, suddenly ashamed.

“I don’t normally. Uh. _Cry._ ” He stumbled over his words.

Her green eyes openly surveyed his face. The heat that climbed up his neck intensified as her curious stare wandered lower, and lower.

And then her eyes snapped back up to his, a faint blush darkened over the spattering of freckles across her nose and cheekbones.

Mute frowned. “What?”

“Um. I, uh. I heard you.” The Eqine rubbed the back of her head as she glanced off to the side, facing the lamp. “From before. So I thought I could come here and… and help you.”

“Oh.” Mute nodded slowly. In the back of his mind, he calmly noted that his hands felt like they were on fire. He wished he had just sucked it up and crawled back to his mat so he could bury his hands under the cream colored sheet again.

“I’m Mute,” he said. _More like I’m di’kutla_ , he thought.

She suddenly pressed one hand to her mouth, and giggled. The commando stared, at a loss to what was so funny. She continued to laugh for another moment, before she realized that he was not laughing with her.

“You're mute?” she ventured. “You’re pretty talkative for someone who can’t speak.”

 _Oh,_ he thought. “No, that’s. That’s my name.”

The female’s eyes widened and her cheeks darkened further. “Oh!” she gasped. “I’m sorry. I didn’t. I mean.”

“It’s okay. The irony. It’s pretty funny.” Mute would have laughed if the pain wasn’t so demanding. Instead he offered a tight smile. “What’s yours?”

“Alera,” she said. She reached into her pouch again, and pulled out a roll of gauze. The bandage unrolled between her fingers, and she dipped them into the bowl. Then she held out her hand to him, open palm facing the ceiling.

The Eqine didn’t say a word, but Mute guessed she didn’t need to. He reluctantly lowered his right hand on hers, and closed his eyes.

There were things, a good deal many _horrible_ things, Mute had watched with open eyes. While this moment ranked relatively low on the scale of _Bad_ , he still couldn’t bring himself to watch. There were worse things. Worse disfigurements. He could have lost his hands completely.

But Alera didn’t seem to mind, didn’t flinch away from touching him, and Mute wasn’t sure how _that_ made him feel.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading.
> 
> These stories deal with a single squad patched from two within the Grand Army of the Republic's Special Operations Brigade. The exact rank and file of this squad is as follows:  
>  **Special Operations Brigade**  
>  \- Zero-Eight Commando Battalion  
> \- Lambda Company  
> \- Bravo Squad [ nicknamed Bha'lir Squad ]
> 
> Originally, I had a story with an Original Character cantina bartender (female) interacting with an ARC trooper and his accomplice, a Commando-in-training. I scrapped that original idea, kept the cantina bartender, but replaced the unusual clone team with two members of a squad. But in order to continue writing the story, I had to complete the squad, and then get into their heads a little bit. This resulted in the creation of Bha'lir Squad, part of the elite Republic Commandos.
> 
> And, well. I took the squad and ran with them. (There won't be any mention of the previous OC.)
> 
> Please keep in mind that Commandos (like all of the other Clones) are not issued names, they are 'recognized' by their numbers. They have no rights, like the rest of the Clone Army, and thus are not allowed possessions of any kind. They are property of the Republic.
> 
> I don't write happy fun time stories all that often. Life is not happy fun time, 75% of the time. Hence, a serving or two of controversial material goes here (especially controversial in the Star Wars universe, as well.)
> 
> Quick list of Squad Members:  
> RC-3192 Beten  
> RC-7177 E'tad  
> RC-2405 Mute  
> RC-5163 Toss
> 
> This takes place during the Clone Wars, obviously. If you are unfamiliar with Commandos and their squads, I'd like to recommend the book series Republic Commando, which offers the Clone Wars in a light we haven't had before now—a true, real, military perspective, and the individual men involved in the galaxy wide war.
> 
> These shorts are also inspired by the novel tie-ins to the game, and so uses canon from them. (As great as flash-training may be, real-world experience will always win out. Hence, multiple references to the Cuy'Val'Dar and Mandalorian training Sergeants brought in by Jango Fett.)
> 
> The novel (and the author) get a lot of flack... However, if you consider yourself a fan of the clone troopers (particularly dealing with soldier-mentality and disillusionment in war), then the books are worth at least a once-through, for fresh perspective. It is difficult to find "common man" points of view in the Star Wars fandom, particularly sympathetic ones that are critical of Jedi, and for that reason alone the books are interesting.
> 
> If you're wondering if this is the same person who posted on LJ (and ffnet) a couple years back: yes. I'm working on moving everything here and... actually filling and finishing everything.


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